


Gullkambr

by ninaunn



Series: shield yourself now, you can survive this strife [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Awesome Frigga, Family Drama, Gen, Haircuts, Oaths & Vows, Pre-Thor (2011), Sewing, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki’s ferocity had been known to Frigga for a long time; as a babe he’d thrown the most spectacular tantrums. But she’d raised him to be a good man of strong loyalties, hadn’t she?</p><p>Or Loki throws a tantrum, Sif suffers for it, Thor is protective and Frigga tries to minimalise the damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spite

Thor had dragged them both into the Fen-halls one morning, and valiantly had somehow managed to prevent Sif from murdering Loki. Frigga had raised one brow at the tangled mess of the three younglings. Her hand-maids had scattered from the ruckus, and Fulla had chided them for dropping their tools while Thor swung Sif away whilst still holding Loki secure by the neck.

“How dare you, Thor!” the girl had snarled, “This is a matter between me and him!” 

Her eldest had grunted, wrapping one arm around her waist as Sif launched herself over him. Loki clawed at Thor’s face in a bid for freedom. Drawing herself up to her regal height, Frigga glared down at the writhing tangle of limbs. 

“You will desist,” she commanded, and they did.

And when the flailing had stopped, then did she see the cause of Sif’s ire. The shock of it doused Frigga cold, and something like fury stirred within her.

“Fulla, Gná, take the maids to the gardens,” Frigga spoke, not taking her eyes off Sif and her sons, “I would have a floral display for tonight’s feast.” 

Footfalls of scurried feet sounded until Fensilar had emptied of all noise but that of her own beating heart. Thor’s look was worried. Sif blinked back tears, and Loki refused to meet her gaze.

“What,” she said coldly as she stepped off the dais, “is the meaning of this?” 

“The Lady Sif,” Thor began slowly, “believes Loki to have…shamed her.”

Still Loki would not look at her, so she turned to Sif. One hand clutched at the stubble of her hair, whilst the other held back a sob. Frigga would not believe it of her son, could not. He would not have violated Sif so? She had not raised him thus. Her hands shook as she stood before them.

“Loki,” and her voice held all the anger and fury of a storm, “what have you done?”

He tilted back his head, and his sneer was almost flawless but for the shudder of his shoulders.

“The Lady Sif,” he slowly drawled, “stated that she did not wish to wed. I simply-“

“What have you done?” Frigga repeated stonily.

“I cut her hair,” his words were abrupt, almost surprised, “She should be thanking me. No man of worth will bother her for a bride now.”

Frigga stared flintily at her son. Even as her chest felt open and hollow, some small pin of relief pricked; he had exposed Sif to ruin, but no further. Nonetheless, there was fear enough in Sif’s face to tell Frigga that she knew exactly what shame Loki had exposed her to. 

“Now they will all think me a whore!” Sif barked, voice hoarse, “My honour-“

Loki had laughed at that, and Frigga slapped him. The sound echoed loudly, and Loki’s wild eyes were wide with shock and fear. 

“And what do you imagine a woman is without her honour?” Frigga asked him, “Do you imagine the court would forgive her if they thought she held her own value so cheaply? That they would forget? That they would not shun and scorn her and turn her out? I never took you for a fool, Loki, nor a knave.”

With each sentence, Loki had flinched, and Frigga wondered if he’d even thought of the consequences of his actions. Cutting Sif’s hair had claimed her a harlot, and a woman of loose loyalties would not be welcomed in court no matter how much Thor loved her. She’d be sent away to some small corner of the realm to end her days in quiet, bitter disgrace. 

Had Loki even considered what he’d wrought? Unlikely, Frigga concluded; for all Loki’s controlled demeanour, when riled his passions became as vicious and frightening as a wild fire. 

His brother stepped in front of Sif.

“You will not send her away!” Thor growled, and never had her heart been so conflicted with pride and sorrow. Frigga shook her head, unwrapping the shawl from her shoulders and stepped toward him.

“Do not imagine me so cruel, son,” and Thor quietened, but did not relax. His face rippled with fury, hurt and confusion, but she could not sooth him now. “Do not imagine that things will be simple if this wrong be not righted.”

“Then righted it shall be!” he declared and Frigga felt Loki flinch.

The burnt orange silk in her hands was soft and cool. Frigga beckoned Sif to come forth; the shield-maid almost crumbled, but her spine stayed straight. Frigga’s heart bled for her bravery. Taking care, she lifted the shawl over the roughly shorn head. With gentle hands, Frigga wound it artfully around, watching Sif’s bright eyes all the while. 

“My queen…” Sif began.

“There,” she said once done, grasping Sif’s shoulders. “You will stay with me for the time being. Loki.”

There was a shuffle behind her.

“Yes, Mother?” came the hesitant answer.

“I do not wish to see you again until you have righted the grievous wrong you have inflicted Sif,” the calm of her voice belied the storm in her heart. He was her son and she would hold him accountable.

“It will grow back,” Loki exclaimed. 

“Not fast enough.”

“You think I can wiggle my fingers and magic her hair into existence?” Loki asked, desperation and panic tinging his voice. “Seidr was not mean for such trivialities. Such things-”

“Mayhap, you should have considered that before you dishonoured one under my protection.”

“I will go with him,” Thor declared, causing Frigga to turn to stare him down.

“This task is for Loki, and Loki alone,” she coolly told him. 

Her eldest had chaffed at that, unwilling to stand aside while his friend hurt and his brother repented.

“You would have me leave immediately?” Loki asked, voice quiet and eyes sharp.

“I would,” Frigga replied, and sadness felt heavy on her chest as she looked at him. What fool notion had cause him to act thus? She dearly wanted to know, wanted to tear his motives out of his mind. Not for the first time she’d seen a wildness in his soul. It was the first time it had become something so destructive. The corners of Frigga’s mouth drooped down. “You’d best get started. I will make your excuses to the Allfather.”

A hiss had escaped his teeth. Odin’s wife knew then he’d not looked past his fury in acting.

He strode away like a prince unburdened, without a word or gesture. Thor bowed to both her and Sif and went to follow his brother. Frigga’s heart felt like it would burst and she dearly wanted to weep. Quietly, Sif stood to her side, hugging herself tightly.

A long sigh left her lungs as Fensilar’s door finally closed, and Frigga took her ward’s hand and drew her to one of the many couches in her hall. Sif had not looked at her, lips tight and eyes fearful without her anger.

Frigga was reminded of how they were little more that children.


	2. Subterfuge

The Allfather had accepted her word that Loki had left on business of his own. He’d seen her story for what it was; a veil covering something reek and rotting, but blessed be Odin knew when to keep his silence.

For nine weeks Thor had thundered through the palace looking for battle. The Warriors Three could only indulge him so many times before they grew weary of being beaten. It was left to the Einherjar to hone the crown prince’s anger into something more than roaring rage.

For nine weeks Sif bound her head in silk scarves and woollen caps, haunting Fensilar like a wraith. Her golden stubble was raked often by despairing fingers. Excepting that one habit, Sif did not fidget in her confinement. Instead she became still as stone, preferring to sit alone on the balcony or by the water reeds. Occasionally she tried her hand embroidery, but the patterns she sewed were harsh, ugly things suited for nothing at all. 

Rumours abounded about the court as to what had happened to her. Frigga let all those in her company know that Sif had fallen ill, and that if Asgard’s queen heard otherwise the rumour mongers would find themselves in the very desolate, lonely postings of Asgard. This was the sister of All Seeing Heimdall, after all.

And still Frigga had not learned cause of Loki’s actions against her. Sif said nothing, and her hair did not grow. Thor knew nothing, and for nine weeks Frigga feared she’d sent her second son to his death.

When he returned, Loki wore a smirk that spoke of triumph. Arms laden with glorious gifts, songs were sung in his praise. He cut a dashing figure as he entered Gladsheim, all eyes upon the glorious son of Odin.

There was joy in her heart at his return, for Frigga knew that he must have succeeded. Even Sif almost smiled to see him bow low to the Allfather. To Odin he gifted Draupnir, the gold dripper. To Freyr he gifted Skidbladnir, the best of ships, and to Sif he gave Gullkambr, the glory comb.

He’d bowed so low to the shield-maid, his words so humble, Frigga had been moved to let the last of her anger go. Sif had silently taken the glittering comb and tucked under her cap with little ceremony, but from her small smile Frigga could see that Loki had returned what he’d taken.

At last, she’d thought, their world might return to normal.

But the Norns had not deemed it so, for that same eve Brokkr and his kin had entered Gladsheim with soot covered arms and fire in their eyes. They’d been loud and large and oh so righteous, and they’d made themselves be heard even midst the festivities.

“Odin Allfather, I come to claim what is rightfully mine.”

“And what, son of Harlung, would that be?”

“The head of your second-born.”

With that, all Frigga’s joy turned to horror. Something spiked in the halls of Gladsheim, and if it were outrage, it was not enough to stay the Allfather’s hand. Thor roared. Sif snarled. Fulla shuddered. Loki spun words enough to save his head, but not to save his pride.

Odin did not deny the sons of Harlung their due. 

Frigga’s knees failed. Gná caught her arm and held her up. As Brokkr wrestled with Loki, Thor wrestled with Hemond. Sindri raised his awl and Loki’s eyes had rolled back.

“A golden hair,” Brokkr grinned at Sif, whose cap had slipped in the feasting to show her renewed glory. His strong grip made Loki whimper, “from the head that Gullkambr blessed. ‘Tis only fitting.”

“No,” Frigga had gasped, though none had heard her. 

Sif drew back, one hand raised as if to ward off such evil words. The steely eye of Odin had not left that of the smith, lines around his face tight.

“No?” Brokkr had laughed; the long teeth of his brother had flashed bright, “A jest, Allfather. I have gold thread enough here.”

Loki’s muffled screams echoed the otherwise silent hall.


	3. Sorrow

The threads could not be cut. The bleeding would not stop. Eir had tried with her silver scissors. Freyr and Freyja had wrought charms over the thread that spoiled. Frigga’s knife had dulled. Odin had looked on grimly and left. 

They’d bound Loki’s hands to stop him tearing at his flesh. He did not lie meekly in the healing halls. The second prince thrashed and twisted until his skin was rubbed raw and Frigga feared he’d rend himself into pieces. Eir calmed him as best she could with smelling salts and Frigga had soothed his brow and apologized over and over again but still it was not enough. 

When he slept, he slept fitfully, and Asgard’s queen had kept vigil, dabbing the blood that seeped from his ruined mouth. Gold glinted beneath crimson and she’d wondered what truth it told and hated it regardless. When he woke, Loki drew inwards and away.

“Mother, what do I do?” pleaded Thor.

“Pray,” she’d told him.

“Undo this,” she’d told her husband on the third day, as he hid in the shadows behind her.

“You know I cannot,” he’d whispered.

“Fires burn you, undo this!”

Odin Borson had slipped away from his wife’s fury.

On the fifth day, Fulla and Gná dragged Frigga away from Loki’s bedside. They bathed her in rose water and fed her honey-cakes that tasted like ash. Her skin felt papery, and Frigga felt frail; she’d spent much in weaving spells to heal and comfort Loki, and all for nothing.

They’d dressed her in a woollen gown of dull green when Hlif, Eir’s adherent, burst into Frigga’s chambers and fell to her knees.

“My Queen,” Hlif gasped, “he is free. The threads have been cut.”

Elegance abandoned, Frigga had run to the Healing Halls with Fulla and Gná fumbling in her wake like ducklings. The healers and apprentices had parted for her like the sea and Hlif had drawn aside the veil without a word.

“Loki,” Frigga had breathed, rushing to his side. Eir sung soft sounds as she tended his bleeding mouth, except that the wounds no longer bled. Loki was still so pale, but his eyes had been keen again, and Frigga reached out to grasp his hand.

He’d pulled it roughly away, face locked in a scowl even as Eir chided him for moving while she worked. Frigga had felt brittle with hurt then; in slow retreat she’d stepped back from Loki’s bedside. Someone, most likely Fulla, had draped a shawl over her shoulders and only then had Frigga noticed her own shivering.

“Would you take a seat, my Queen?” came the quiet, husky voice of Sif, and Frigga had turned in surprise. She’d not even noticed the shield-maid sitting silently to the side. 

“My thanks, Sif,” Frigga’s replied, clasping at her shawl as she settled beside her ward, “I did not even-“

Surprise hit Frigga again as she took in Sif’s appearance. The shining mane that Loki had restored to her was gone. Not shorn, for her locks were as long and luscious as ever. But no longer was it the bright of day, for Sif’s hair was now stained black like the dead of night, and Frigga could not help but stare.

Sif rolled her shoulders under the queen’s gaze.

“Curious, isn’t it?” she’d murmured, not flinching when Frigga stretched out a hand to finger the inky strands.

“My dear,” Frigga’s voice was little more than a whisper, “how did this come to pass?” 

“I-I did not notice at first,” the hitch in the shield-maid’s voice spoke volumes, “I was too taken in cutting the thread-“

Something uncurled in Frigga’s mind, and she saw into the treacherous revenge Brokkr had sought against her son. From his bed, the second prince avoided her gaze. It made her fingers twitch.

“It was by your hand that the Harlunging’s thread was undone?”

“Aye,” Sif said, eyes sliding away to Loki.

“And your hair darkened with each strand you cut?” It was not a question, and something cold slid into her belly. For Frigga saw Brokkr’s intention and marvelled at his cunning as much as she’d been reviled by it.

The smith had learned, or perhaps deduced, Loki’s need for such a comb as Gullkambr, and had been sly enough to foresee Loki’s treachery to counter it. It was neatly done, undoing all the good he’d sought to repair. The rage and sorrow held her throat shut tight, though she desperately wanted to scream.

“The comb?” Frigga had managed to ask.

“Just a pretty ornament,” Sif replied, handing her the dead gold metal, but there was no shame or outrage in her countenance, only sadness, “it seems I will be a spectacle after all.”

After that there was little else to say, and queen and shield-maid sat in the quiet with foreboding in their hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally to be a chapter in The Fen Halls, but as I'm kind of stuck on that at the moment, I've decided this works better as it's own story. More chapters to follow soon.
> 
> Also, forgive my liberal treatment of Norse Mythology.


End file.
